Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(15)

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—

In the outer office, Virgil got contact information for the people mentioned by Green. He asked the secretary, “The Wilson Library is around here, isn’t it? I went to school here, but it was quite a while ago.”

“It’s right next door,” she said. “You gonna go look at the murder scene?”

“I guess,” Virgil said, “since I’m right here.”

The secretary dropped her voice. “It was pretty gory. The blood soaked into the floor, and I’m told there’s no way to get the stain out. They’ll probably cover it with carpet, but it’ll be there forever.”

“That would be a little grim for the next occupant of the room,” Virgil allowed.

The secretary shivered. “I wouldn’t take it.” She leaned forward in her chair to look down the hall to Green’s office, then sat upright again and asked, quietly, “If I tell you something, would you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Sure, unless it’s awful and illegal.”

“It’s not, though some people”—she tilted her head toward Green’s office—“would probably think so. Things are so dangerous in the world now that my husband made me get a carry permit. I have a Sig 938 and a carry purse. If I get attacked, somebody’s gonna get three Speer Gold Dots right in the breadbasket.” She snapped her gum.

“Be careful,” Virgil said. “Really, really careful.”

“I am careful,” she said solemnly.

Virgil moved closer, and asked, “You think Professor Green is clear on this thing, right?”

“Oh, sure. She likes to create a lot of commotion, but she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Do you think that there are any males—you know, who have attachments to her or fantasies about her—who might be thinking they’re protecting her? By killing Quill?

“In the department?” She thought for a moment. “People will tell you Clete May, but he’s a big cream puff. No, I can’t think of anybody.”



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—

Virgil left the truck where it was and walked around to the Wilson Library. The director, who looked like a library lady should, with horn-rimmed glasses and a doughy oval face, reacted as Green’s secretary had. “You’re sure you’re a police officer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to worry about it, so”—Virgil dug Trane’s card out of his ID case and handed it to her—“call Sergeant Trane and ask.”

“No, no . . .”

“If you don’t, you’ll worry about it,” Virgil said.

She called Margaret Trane, identified herself, asked the question, smiled, said, “Yes, he is wearing an Otis Taylor T-shirt. I think he looks quite handsome in it.” She listened some more, then exclaimed, “Shut up! Three times?” She looked at Virgil, reevaluating. “He doesn’t look old enough.”

When she got off the phone, she led him up a flight of steps to Quill’s carrel, which was on an outer wall, behind deep stacks of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The carrel had crime scene tape across the door. Virgil pulled the tape loose and unlocked the door with a key he’d gotten from Trane.

As he stepped inside, the library lady asked, “You’ve really been married and divorced three times already?”

“Yes, but I was only fourteen the first time, so nobody expected that one to last,” Virgil said.

The library lady said, “Oh,” and vanished, and Virgil smothered the impulse to run after her and tell her he was joking. So much for his awkward sense of humor.



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—

The carrel was a small room, narrow, maybe ten feet long. There was indeed the shadow of a stain on the tile floor, no doubt Quill’s blood. Traces of black fingerprint powder were everywhere. He tried to avoid it as best he could. The stuff was like slime mold: it would stick to anything and spread like chicken pox.

The carrel had a built-in desk, with a shelf above it, and an expensive-looking leather office chair. A half dozen heavy-looking texts rested in the bookcase, all of which looked as though they’d been roughly handled by investigators. A rolled-up yoga mat sat behind the books on the shelf. The silver metal wastebasket was empty.

The place smelled like . . . nothing. Not smoke, not sweat, not even like the cleaner that would have been used to get rid of the blood. Not much to see, with plenty of room to swing a laptop—if a laptop, in fact, had been used to murder.

He was about to leave when he noticed the yoga mat again. He reached over the chair, pushed a couple of books aside, and took it down off the shelf. It was a thicker than normal mat made of a soft, nubby light blue plastic. Why would anyone be doing yoga in such a confined space and often enough to bring a mat?

He thought about that for a moment and flashed back to his junior year: a hasty relationship with a young woman named what? Jean? Under a library table on the third floor, just before closing. Was it Jean? His mind was going, he thought.

He unrolled the mat on the floor, got down on his knees. As he did, the library lady returned, opened the carrel door, gasped, and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you praying?”

“No. I’m looking at Dr. Quill’s yoga mat,” Virgil said. “If you could step back, you’re in my light.”